September rains christened the old cemetery with a bleakness that blackened the gravestones tumbled among the trees grown up in neglect. The sporadic communion of sun did little to dispel the clinging mist and declined to warm the ossuaries of the once proudly provident now in impoverished exile. It appealed to Vasquez, a Sage of the Charon Order, like the breath of a lover in a dream.
The crumbling house across the narrow dirt road leading from the cemetery to the town still had remnants of furniture. Vasquez sat in a tattered brocade loveseat he had pulled to the unbroken window. The rivulets of the day’s drizzle etched the glass, blurring his vision of the stone sentinels marking passages. His damp clothes added to the mustiness of the deserted homestead avoided by the righteous as an unnatural place likely cursed by sins it had witnessed. He did not believe in curses or that the unnatural was suspect. Still, he always felt some uneasiness with the dead, the province of his Order.
Maybe it’s all the same. Fifty-fifty.
Long shadows wove light and rain into ominous veils. It was twilight and the fire he had made from broken furniture scraps brought tendrils of steam from his clothes. The fireplace drew well and flickering light cast his outline on the parlor wall, a note on a score unplayed.
He waited.
Two
The cemetery’s namesake began as a rough clapboard village. Six months after the first board was nailed the cemetery made it settled country. The town disappeared after a virulent flood and graves routed by the Acheron torrent gave testament to the diaspora, the dead unsettled in their wandering without the stones above to anchor them. Vasquez felt welcome in the parlor built by a prominent pioneer, a practical display of prosperity of the time. Over the years, it was a house beset no less by the elements than the eccentric excesses of its occupants. The cemetery across the road completed its reputation as a place where haunts quibbled in the darkness.
The first guests glimmered by the fireplace, a couple flowing in and out of the flames with familiarity. Vasquez watched the parlor fill with ageless apparitions for their appointment in the ruins of Samarra. He wondered if he should move the loveseat out of the way so the dead would be unimpeded in their orchestration, a poltergeist parody of indifferent serenades unheard in the susurrations of the living. Vasquez crossed himself languidly in jest, an old tradition of the Order.
Not serious, yet.
Still, the prescience of a prudent seer led him to pull his necklace from under his shirt, resting the reliquary above his heart. He reached into a shirt pocket for his Chesterfields and matches. The exhaled smoke bloomed into the parlor wavering among the glimmers. He laid the pack and matches on the loveseat in case any wanted a smoke.
The rain had stopped, the night turning cool anticipating the coming October frost. Vasquez added a chair to the fire and the glimmers seemed glad of the glow, gliding in the aura unfelt. Moonlight eluded clouds lingering on a small wind.
Peaceful.
It was time to dig up the guest.
Three
The graveyard was wet and the shovel almost hissed as it cut through leaves. The dirt got drier closer to where the coffin should be. Opening the casket was the least favorite part of the ritual for Vasquez. Most of the remains were bare bones and dust, but some were skin desiccated to parchment that crumbled and tore in his hands, the taint clinging. There was only one guest to free; the parlor was already crowded with the gossamer revelers who came at his invitation.
His shovel struck the rotting wood of the temporary tomb. He cleared dirt to get a grip on the lid’s edge to pry it open. It broke apart in his hands into the box, showering the inside with debris that clung as he pulled remains from the grave and stacked them beside it. The bones flickered white through shreds of moldy clothing in the passing moonlight. Vasquez was pleased as he climbed out of the hole. He carried the bones across the road to the parlor, leaving the shovel behind for next time.
The fire had burned to embers. He placed the bones on the loveseat and added a table leg to the fireplace. The wood began to smoke and he blew on the coals to establish a flame. Three breaths and he was able to add more to the fire, preparing it for the bones of the guest. It was the ritual to establish a place for the unsettled dead to anchor their essence. The glimmers in the parlor were testament to his success in the unnatural awakening. Vasquez was confident as he prepared the bones, cleaning them to bareness with his hands.
The bones cracked as they burned, freeing the spirit from the last stygian tentacles of mortality. Vasquez sat on the loveseat and noticed the pack of Chesterfields was empty, spent matches on the floor. He smiled.
Good to know.
D Bedell has a BA in Writing from Missouri State University and an MS from the Center for Defense and Strategic Studies. His work has appeared in Floyd County Moonshine, Susurrus, and SciFanSat.
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